Ever the Hunted (Clash of Kingdoms #1)(14)

“Let me,” Leif urges. “I know you must feel alone right now. But I’m here and—?and you can trust me. No one’s strong alone. We need each other—”

“Don’t . . . Y-you don’t know me—” I cut him off, letting rage distract from the pain. What does he know about being alone? He’s a king’s guard. He doesn’t need to worry that he’ll never marry. That his home will be taken. That he’ll die alone.

“Perhaps not as well as I’d like.” His voice turns shy. “But I’ve seen your strength and cunning and determination. You’re loyal. And I know life hasn’t been very fair to you.”

I let out a snort. But he has my attention.

“My father died when I was nine,” Leif continues. “When my ma caught the ague, I was thrown off my horse on my way to fetch a healer. My leg was hurt badly. I couldn’t do much for my family. Then someone made me a crutch.” He pauses, looks up. “It was your father.”

I stare at Leif. Warmth from his words blossoms and spreads through me.

“My ma always used to say, ‘It’s a good thing to need others.’ It’s okay to need my help, Britta. I’m not gonna make you pay for it later.”

The leaves of a sapling beyond the stream flutter as a dove emerges and flits away. The sight of the gray puff reminds me of Cohen. You don’t need a lot of friends, just a good one, Papa said. Back then Cohen was my “good one.”

“Go on, then,” I whisper.

Leif slowly lifts my shirt upward until my backbone is exposed. He huffs out a breath. I’m about to ask what he sees when the cool press of the rag forces every nerve in my body to hiss. I fist my hands and slam my eyes shut—?it’s all I can do not to scream.



“You shouldn’t waste the grain on the birds.” I twisted my hand until my satchel’s straps bit into my skin. We had drawn the attention of a few marketgoers milling near the cathedral. Cooing doves pecked the stones just beyond Cohen’s reach.

“Give me a couple more minutes.” His pleading gaze swung to mine. He jiggled a handful of grain, palm outstretched to lure in the chestnut-colored speckled fowl. None were daring enough to eat from his hand.

A nobleman cut through the crowd, scowling at me. His fur-trimmed overcoat skimmed the cobblestones. My grip on the satchel tightened, even though my fingers were already numb.

“Let’s go,” I urged. “We’ve been here too long. Papa will worry.”

Cohen sighed. His golden-brown eyes searched mine. Then he tossed the bits to the birds.

On the road that led to my cottage, Cohen looked at the bag of grain in his left arm and then turned to me. “Usually they’ve gone by now, but this year’s been warmer.”

“The birds?” I wrinkled my nose.

“They’re doves.” He shrugged. “They’re interesting. Compassionate and loyal.”

Skepticism was written across my face.

“Really,” Cohen argued. “Both male and female doves care for their young.” When I didn’t appear interested, he added, “And they mate for life. Shows they’re loyal to one another.”

A blush rose to my cheeks from his comment. “Guess they’re not just dull brown birds.”

I hoisted my satchel higher on my shoulder to take the weight off my arms. It was heavy with tubers from the market and new arrows from the fletcher.

“Not all are brown. Sometimes I’ll spot a fair one as pale as you.”

I rolled my eyes at him. How lovely to be compared to a fowl.

Without asking, Cohen tugged the bag off me and swung it onto his back.

“Didn’t ask for your help,” I said, bothered that he always felt compelled to take care of me. I may have only been fourteen, but I could manage well enough the months he wasn’t there.

“So you didn’t ask, but can you not simply accept it sometimes?” He shook his head.

I huffed. “Why accept it when I don’t need it?”

Cohen returned the satchel. With the tubers weighing down my arms again, I wished that I hadn’t thrown a fit about his help.

“Stubborn as the birds,” he muttered under his breath.

“Did you just compare me to the doves?”

He looked at me squarely. “That I did. They wouldn’t eat from my hand when I had food for the taking. Like them, you’re loyal. Compassionate. But you never want help when I offer.”

“Stop offering and I’ll stop refusing.”

He chuckled. “Whatever you say, Dove.”



That night I dream Cohen is bloody and dying in my arms, and I am choking on fear and sobs.

My throat is dry as stone when I wake flat on my front, my entire body sweating and smarting from the pain. I haven’t had the nightmare since right after the accident that gave Cohen his scar.

Trembling, I push up to sitting. Captain Omar watches me through the fire pit’s smoke.

“She’ll need food to help regain strength,” he tells Leif, who is loading a pack on the captain’s horse. “And give her more balm.”

When the captain leaves, Leif hands me a tin of food. Tomas saunters over and I turn away from Leif, who is the one ray of sunshine on this bleak excursion.

“Learned yer lesson?” Tomas’s pointy chin juts at me. “Need me to give you another?”